


Male Reader X Female The Thing

by CampGreen



Category: The Thing (1982)
Genre: F/M, Horror, Literature, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 04:43:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13779966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CampGreen/pseuds/CampGreen
Summary: I've finally gotten around to doing my number one favorite horror film of all time - The Thing! Making the most repulsive thing ever thought up by man sexy was hard, but I did it, I think. The Thing is by Universal Pictures and John Carpenter.





	1. Outpost 31

Antarctica, Winter 1982.

Perverted visions of women's assets dance in your head, like sugar plums in the dreams of the kids from The Night Before Christmas. You sleep on your job as the Outpost 31 radioman, happily taking a conga-line of wet dreams over wasting hours listening to nothing but unflinching static. The blizzard equivalent of Hurricane Camille is moving into the South Pole, so ever getting a signal trying to find a needle in a haystack, except there's not even a needle. Leaning back in your creaky office chair, with your booted feet kicked up on the radio console and your fingers interlocked behind your head, you lazily and sensually bathe behind your eyelids, in your own unconscious imagination. Suddenly a deafening bolt of feedback is shot clean through your eardrums, giving you a heart attack as you fire awake and stumble out of the chair with a hard thud.

 _"You enjoying yourself, (Y/N)?"_ sarcastically asks the bitch that tampered with the console just to wake you, the no-nonsense and drill sergeant-esque Commander Moffat.

After recovering, you weakly scramble to your feet, ears still ringing. _"God dammit..."_ you mumble under your breath. _"S-Sorry ma'am! I didn't mean to doze off, I swear!"_

_"Do you think the government spent thousands of taxpayer dollars setting this research camp up out here just so you could lounge around it with a boner all day?"_

Your lecture is interrupted by an abrupt blare of static crackling out from the blocky old communications equipment that, to impress your commander, you're just barely able to mold into about half of a signal with enough dial turning, made up by useless fragments that hardly even sound human.

_**"O̴̖̩̞̲̗H͍̕-̸̬̯͍̖̝E͘L̵̹̝͕̻̻ͅP̪̠!̣̳̞̦͙̦͝ ̞̫̕T̫̳H̭̠̙̙̥̮-͇͓ͅU͚C͉̝̘͈̟̮K̺̪͍̫ͅI͚͍̟͉̝̮ͅ-̣̼̝̣ͅS̮T͉̪̝̘̗̼̥Ẹ͔̖͙͟R͖͠-̧̗͎̘̱̖U͚͔͉S̘-̙̪͎̺̘C̶̹̪͖A͓͓̻͖̤N̵ ̹̖͍P̴̘̫̘̠̦ER̶͓̯F͍͖̫̱͎̣-̥̣̯̝̗͞M͔̹͈̲̥̙̰IM̟̭̻͞-͈̥̹͎EA̵͕T̸̤͉͇S͇-̥͔͈̗̝D̟̥̥O̧͖N̠̼̩͙̱̠͉'̳̞͝T̙̯̮͎̯ ̴̘͍Ṯ̵̯͓̤͉R-͇̜͔̖͝O̴̼̜N̳E̝̠̥͎̱̹͚͢!̞̗͇ ̜̩̤͈̙̪̭A̠͜AA̛͇A̠̭̤͕A͉̹͞-̝̰̪"** _

_"Well, that was an SOS if I've ever heard one,"_ remarks Moffat. _"I want it traced yesterday, (Y/N), don't forget about that storm moving in!"_

 _"Yes, ma'am!"_ you nervously bark as you start fiddling with the consoles like you're readying a rocket launch. 

After Moffat departs, you're eventually able to break the signal down to a set of nearby coordinates. Just when you thought things were getting boring... 

The chopper soars against the harsh wind and snowfall of Antarctica, in hot pursuit of that stretch of land you pinpointed. Sure enough, among the wintry wasteland that lies below is a fellow outpost that's absolutely wrecked. 

_"Christ, looks like Genghis Khan and his army had their way with it,"_ Macon, the pilot and your partner in this mission, cracks at the smoky horizon. Stone-faced, her eyes are hidden behind a pair of Vietnam sunglasses, and a lit cig hangs out of her mouth. 

She lands the heli a couple meters from the wreckage, which the two of you promptly explore on foot. The smoldering rubble is strewn with a whole research crew's worth of corpses, some riddled with bullets and others torn to shreds. A crispy heap of God knows what is half buried in the snow. A cooked carcass so twisted it doesn't even look human. Macon sticks her hand into it and pulls out a big clump of green goo like she's gutting a pumpkin.

 _"Guess some wildlife got a little too close. Doesn't explain why it's bleeding mucus though,"_ Macon observes before flicking her glove dry, completely unfazed. 

_"Jesus. Don't let that stop you from smearing it all over yourself,"_ you joke as you hold back from gagging.

A streaking trail of blood that pops out from all the white paints an arrow pointing into a nearby ice cave. You gulp as you pop your flare by Macon's side and use its crackling red glow as a torch. The two of you carefully snake past an obstacle course of barrels, crates, and pallets to finally stumble upon two bodies, one as stone-dead and mangled as the rest and the other a potential survivor, mostly unscathed aside from a suit of torn to shreds navy winter clothes and laid out in the sn-OH. MY. GOD. 

Look at those knockers! They're huge! They're the size of bean bag chairs, EACH! Her chest, her abdomen, the front of her whole damn torso are eclipsed by twin moons. Otherwise, the girl's quite slender but she has to wear a men's XXL coat just to contain those things, and it STILL looks painted on! You have so many questions. Are they real? How does she even get around? Does she need a wheelbarrow? You shake yourself out of your hormone trip and try keeping your gaze locked on her eyes. A shiny silver nametag highlights one of her fat nipples, big enough to use as coasters as they bleed through a couple perfectly placed tears in her jacket. 

_"Bjørg,"_ it reads. What is that, Swedish?

 _"Ma'am?"_ you ask as she weakly stirs awake. _"What happened?"_

_"Mmrgh...S-...Soviets..."_

Should've known. You'd carry her back to the copter yourself but that'd essentially be tying a boulder to your back. Going from your knowledge that a good pair of Double D's are 20 pounds (don't ask), this girl has to be at least 200, half of that load her tits alone. 

_"We're gonna need a stretcher,"_ Macon comments, just as mesmerized as you.


	2. Sole Survivor

After another grueling chopper ride, the two of you get back to base, breathlessly settling into the nice cozy bunker after having trudged through a half acre of snow with Bjørg's titanic tits on a litter. The door to the storeroom flies open with your return, letting a few piles of snow and the roar of Mother Nature sweep into the cramp, industrial complex for a few seconds. You and Macon stand at Moffat's side in her questioning of Bjørg as she's cleaned up by Doc, the team medic and an unassuming gal that stays out of everybody's way.

 _"Alright,"_ Moffat begins as she starts scribbling an incident report down on her clipboard, _"now can you tell us in detail what happened?"_

 _"Hardly,"_ she answers, still a little bit out of it. The more she talks, the more you notice she has some cute Nordic accent hidden in her voice. _"I was put into a concussion just before things went to Hell. Got clumsy during a maintenance chore and hit my head a little too hard for my own good. I'm pretty sure a Soviet outpost invaded ours out of no where. I have flashes of gunfire, screaming, and a golden hammer and sickle. Shot the place up, torched it, then left. Animals."_

 _"The recovery team_ (Hey, that's you!) _reports that a lot of your fellow crewmen were mauled beyond recognition though."_

 _"Oh, they also sicc'd a pack of their rabid sleddogs onto us too, I think. Now I remember the most ungodly growling and snarling..."_ Explains that monstrous hunk of whatever the hell Macon was too willing to feel up. 

_"I see. You're Norwegian, correct?"_ Moffat asks, gesturing at her nametag with her pen.

_"Yes, ma'am."_

_"Norway's on the right side of the Cold War, but it's still odd how the Ruskies would just rape and pillage a neutral outpost like that. This might potentially make the war go hot."_

_"Hot?"_ you interject. _"Here? Ha."_ Bjørg snickers. A quick blush flashes upon your face, taken aback by someone actually laughing at one of your dumb jokes, while your three fellow crewwomen discuss.

 _"I guess they weren't planning on anyone ever finding out,"_ Macon adds.

 _"World War 3 will have to wait,"_ Moffat asserts. _"The blizzard just hit record highs. Nothing's going in or out of this continent for weeks. You all get comfortable."_

 _"You live a charmed life, Bjørg,"_ Doc reminds. _"If we were just an hour later, you would've stuck in the eye of the storm all alone."_

_"Yeah, lucky me..."_

_"There's a guest room down that hall, make yourself at home."_

_"Thanks."_

As the five of you scatter to their dorms, you make your move on Bjørg. _"I'm so sorry about your research team, ma'am."_

_"Oh, uh, thank you."_

_"It's a miracle you were basically untouched among all that carnage."_

_"Yep."_ Man, there's something...off about this girl. Something seriously off. Must just be shellshock. _"Oh, and my eyes are up here."_

 _"What? OH, sorry!"_ you feverishly apologize upon realizing you zoned out on her bosom for, what, the fifth time in the past 10 minutes?

She gives another hypnotizing giggle before explaining the, erm, elephant in the room. _"It's okay, everybody stares. Most girls stop growing at 14. Mine stopped at 21. It's actually one of the reasons I pursued work in the Arctic. With 120 extra pounds of fat dangling off my chest, I'm wearing multiple layers even in my birthday suit."_

_"Awesome! So do you maybe wanna, uhhh, take your coat off?"_

_"...it's 70 below out."_

_"I know, I just figured you're a hot-natured girl, is all. Emphasis on the hot,"_ the stupid flirty part of your brain throws in at the last second, making yourself cringe the instant you say it.

_"You're a real ladies' man, you know that?"_

_"Am I, now?"_

_"Maybe I am getting a little toasty. Undressing is easier said than done for me, though. I could use a helping hand."_

_"Or two."_

She chuckles as she disappears into the shadows of the spare bunk room. _"Or two."_

She's not that off anymore. Aside from actually wanting to bang you. She must be an alien! If you had a tail, it'd be wagging like a dog's. You scamper in pursuit of her, closing the door behind you. With a crafty scowl, she slowly drags her jacket's zipper all the way down then pulls the navy, snowflake-encrusted curtains aside, every second of anticipation a recreational drug dosage for you. You nab two pink fleshy saucers the second you see them and start fervently feeding like a starved animal.

 _"Uh-uh-uh,"_ Bjørg calls you off as she kicks off her boots. _"We're saving the best for last. Fuck me first."_

Aw man. Usually, it's the intercourse that's the main dish and the foreplay that's the appetizer. But when you're dealing with a girl whose tits could be used as trampolines, there's always exceptions. You grumble as the two of you strip off your bottoms to get this lame sex stuff out of the way.


	3. Once More, With Clarity

She plants her knees atop the covers of her bottom bunk and sits so her heels get swallowed by each of her gelatinous buttcheeks, which she then spreads as wide as her body allows. You fill the window she leaves open for you, fiercely tunneling your cock as deeply into her cunt as you can. The roof of your shaft is tickled by her bouncing, swollen clitoris. Most of the ensuing cumshot is devoured by her womb but it's so overwhelming that a stream still spills out onto her soles when you detach from the genitalia hug.

Similar to blood-loss, the sheer amount of fluids dispelled in such a short time renders you woozy, almost unconscious. Bjørg twists over on her back, spreading out on the sheets, and sandwiches your greased cock between her soles to give it a nice warm home. You rapidly thrust your hips back and forth a few hundred times and deliver the makeshift fleshlight a brutal pounding. The silky skin that covers her feet almost feels even more angelic than the texture of her pussy's insides. A spiral of chunky white is torn out from your urethra. It completely coats the upper half of her body, managing to scale the two mountains growing out of her chest, but goes especially heavy on the mug, giving her a soupy facial that drips down into her cleavage, which is like shoveling dirt into a ditch or watching rainwater pour out of a gutter. She uses her fingers to wipe up all the spoonfuls of splooge smeared into her eyes before popping them into her mouth.

 _"Alright, baby. You earned it,"_ she moans with a wink and one finger still hooked at the corner of her lips.

With incredible struggle, she lifts her tits up, each about 60 pounds, like she's serving them both to you on a platter. She giggles as you feast upon them akin to a ravenous predator.

_"Hey, (Y/N)?"_

_"Yes, Bjørg?"_ You pop her nipple out of your mouth to say.

_"I-"_

The mood is totally killed when Moffat invites herself in. 

_"Hey, Bjø- (Y/N)?!"_ Moffat shouts, heavy with disgust. _"For fuck's sake, we rescued this traumatized sole survivor not but 1 hour ago and you're already fucking her?! Get back to your work station now!"_ she chastises.

Face flushed with red, you give Bjørg an awkward and rushed goodbye as you scramble your ski pants back on and return to the radio room. Now all you have to mess around with is a jumble of dusty radio hardware from the 60's, rather than a hot slut whose tits literally weigh more than you. Joy. With nothing else to do, you stay up the whole night twisting dial after dial, trying to restore that SOS you received to maybe please Moffat for once. It's a long and grueling process, putting all your training as a military radio operator and sound engineer to the test. You're finally able to fumble your way through sculpting the butchered broadcast back to an approximation of its original, previously unheard incarnation.

_**"͉̦͚͝O̟̥͔̥͔͖̫͟H̰̖͈̭̻̜ ͓̞G̴̦͚̞͎̹̺OD͙,̙̯̩͓̳͔̯ ̗̬̜̱H̴͉̠͈̞͕̪E̙͕͈͓̞͙L͙P̘͇̖̮͘ ̢̫͙̖̩̪Ṷ̟̘̹͉͓S͇̲̰̗͔̤͖!͙̞̫̥̘̜̖ ̦͉̳̦Ţ̝̻͇H҉͎̭̪̣̤̬E͇̞̠͇͞R̡E̝͞ͅ'̨S̞̹̲̹̦̮̣ ̢̮͚̪̱Ḁ̠̫ ̶͇F̨̗̱̣͔͉̱U̳C͖̣̭̩̘̟KḬ͓̤͇͍̮̝N̦̼̰̺̤G͓ ̧͖̭̳̠M͔O̸̪̻̞̱ͅN͓̲S͙̥͇̳͘T̝̥̞Ę̤̠͇̰R̷ ͎̗̰͠T̡̤̼̰̜R̸͈̮͙̼Y̳͕͖̦̕I̤͈̣̤̗̦̖Ņ̠̯͕G ̳͉͈̳̫̭͙T̲̞̤͎̺͕ͅO̭͟ ͍̹̲̘D͉̟̺̣̫̩̩͝E͍̠̥͜V̙O͓̩̼͓͎͉͉U҉̤ͅR̹̪̻̯̤ ҉̣̭͍̙U͈Ș̸ ̴̩͖͖̝̟̰A͖̯̫L͠L̷͉̖͚͉͍͖ͅ! ͕I͙͉̠͓̳T̰͇͔ ̘͓̮͕CA̮̟̱̪͟N̡͉͎̱̦͙̣̺ ̡P̨̠͍̣̥͔ER̕F̫̭͘E̺̝͓C̵͎̝̰͚̪̩ͅT͏͕̦̝̱̲̖L̵̖͉Y̶͍̭̖̘ ͈̤̙̭̳̕M̱̻̱̝̠̻̮I̞̻̗̜ͅṂ̪I̲͖͉C̮̯̻͕̟ ̬̤̫͚̠̦A̗N͏̳̱͙̫̥Y̴̭̮͎͈̪̳̼T̷̠̣̯̤̥̱͕H̘̪̥̠͡I̷̤̝̫N͕̪̜G ͚̤̞͚̮͘I̸͇̗͔Ṯ̼̫̪̬ ̖̝E҉̖̹̗̺̹A̫͢T҉͚͈S͉͍͚̘̺͈̜!̮̹ ̸̪̱̝͙͍D̴͕̭̻̮͇̝̩O̘̰͜N̵'̮̠̞̠̯̜T̻ ̠T̲̟̟͜R̸̺͇̥̜US̘̣̜̟͖̦T̤ ̱̮̜̬̩͖͢A̠͔͈N̬̲̬͇̝͉̣Y̝͎͓̹̩͙O̹̦̙N̻̦ͅE̡̤̭͉!̙̮̗̻͘ ̙̹̭A̭̝̠A͎̤͚̤̠̩A͈̞̲͍A̖͢A̧̱̰̯̻-͖͖̤̬̠ͅ"̧̙̳̟̤͍̞"** _

The cry for help sends a chill down your spine. Then you flash back to the crash site. The gnarly, Lovecraftian cadaver of some otherworldly creature, burnt to a crisp. The one that Macon got her hands deep in. At the time, you assumed it was just some poor wolfdog that got caught in the worst of the crossfire. But then you remember the endless rumors of the Soviets' biological weapons programs. My God...Did you bring the infectee of a monstrous experimental virus back to base? In the black reflection of one of the radio consoles, you see someone creeping up behind you.


	4. Patient Zero

You dive to the floor, narrowly dodging a fire axe coming down on the radio equipment like a lightning bolt, gutting its wires in an electric explosion. It's Macon with a wicked, ungodly grin on her face.

She rips her olive coat open as if she's about to flash you, but instead of a pair of tits, you get a giant gaping maw, a literal pit in her stomach, lined with dozens of distorted, misshapen fangs. A pink, slimy tendril spouts out the crevice, a twisted tongue for a twisted mouth, and it grapples you by the ankles, dragging you across the floor from the other side of the room. You anchor yourself on the fire axe, still wedged in the smoking remains of your work station, and rip it out by its handle, slamming its bulky yet razor sharp head down on the fleshy hose bounding your ankles together. Fishing line cut, you scramble to your feet and bolt out the radio room with your heart pounding in your ears like drums, pulling the fire alarm to put the whole outpost on high alert. Moffat, Bjørg, and Doc all groggily stumble from their bedrooms in their sleepwear, instantly snapping heads-up like someone splashed freezing water in their faces upon noticing the shrieking, hellish monstrosity that's chasing you down the main hall of the facility. 

_"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT THING?!"_ they all scream in unison as you dash past them into the break room. 

Moffat clambers her revolver out of her panties but The Thing's skin is essentially kevlar, treating all three of the .357 Magnum rounds like ineffective rubber bullets. Another tendril fires from "Macon"'s back very geyser-esque and it skewers Moffat through the stomach. She falls to her knees with blood spilling out of her chest and mouth, and when her corpse hits the ground with a wet thud, a lighter slides across the floor out of her shirt pocket that you swipe up. The blood-soaked feeler, alongside with three more of its brothers, sprout out from Macon's winter coat and come for you next, tearing the lounge to shreds in a flailing frenzy. The pool table is knocked over, spilling billiard balls everywhere, and wooden stools from the bar are smashed into splinters against the wall. With a series of dashes, rolls, and ducks, you're able to sloppily parkour through the hurricane of furniture, narrowly dodging the tentacles as they whiz past your winter clothes similar to bullets. Bjørg takes cover behind the counter while Doc makes a dash for the exit. A tendril that looks like a pink boa constrictor pouncing on its prey harpoons through her skull, and her nigh-decapitated corpse is lobbed at you just as anything else. You use the supply closet's door as a shield from the 130 pound projectile that is Doc's fresh carcass, and slam it shut while you're at it, cowering in something hardly bigger than a locker. 

Using Moffat's scavenged lighter to see, you scramble around in the darkness for something, anything, that could save you from this nightmare. Then you find it. The locked door is seized and ripped clean off its hinges with casual jerk, and in the doorway stands the hulking, malformed silhouette of a tentacled beast that has you cornered. Or at least that's what it thinks. You hold the lighter in front of a can of bug spray you found collecting dust atop one of the closet's shelves and mash your index finger down on its nozzle. It exhales a stream of chemicals that are lit on fire upon passing through the candle's gate and douses The Thing in a blaze with a makeshift flamethrower. Now a terrified, dying animal, The Thing panickedly stumbles around the lounge, wreathed in flames and spreading like a wildfire with two legs, and busts through one of its flimsy wooden walls in a desperate escape. It drunkenly and frantically marches through the blizzard but topples into nothing but a murky crisp after shambling not but 10 feet from the outpost. Before you can even catch your bearings, Doc reanimates as another Thing. You try with the flamethrower again but the aerosol can gives a rattling wheeze before running dry. Still on her back, she spreads her legs wide, ready for a fuck, but her thighs are splintered with honed teeth, twisting her invitation for sex into another monstrous maw. 


	5. Happy Ending

Her guts prolapse out through her vagina and evolve into another set of tendrils that she sics on you like a javelin. You duck under the jellyfish stingers and they're instead buried into the wall, which she uses to pull herself to her feet. The remains of Doc's face too shift into the bloody jaws of a wanting predator, and she lashes out at you, expecting to messily guzzle your skull. The evergrowing and encircling flames visually accentuate your epic fight akin to Christmas garland decorating the break room. You dive out of the way, landing right next to Bjørg as she trembles behind the bar, and The Thing charges into the wall, crashlanding in the room that was behind it. It also tripped on a gas line and cracked it open on the way. Right as you get to your feet, Bjørg tackles through the hole in the wall that the Macon-Thing left behind, because God knows you wouldn't have been able to tackle her heavy ass, right as the entire base is put out of its misery with one big final explosion brought on by the gas leak. The camp is reduced to another pile of flaming rubble, just like Bjørg's old research station. God, this girl is a disaster magnet! But you don't care. Bjørg lays on top of you, shaken from the explosion, from everything. Her boulders weighing down on your chest nearly crack your sternum, but you're more than happy to serve as her bed covers. You two of you stare at each other, shocked. Then break out into a nervous laughter. 

She rolls off and you both writhe around in a laughing fit like a couple of little kids, the orange glow of Outpost 31's remains providing almost romantic lighting and warmth. Speaking of Outpost 31's remains, it's a hell of a sight. A twisted terror but, at least by some miracle you survived said twisted terror. Bjørg clutches you by the face and burrows her tongue deep in your mouth. Even though it's 70 below, you still manage to melt into her arms as you french in celebration of narrowly escaping that Eldritch nightmare still in one piece. But then all of a sudden you feel ill. Like Bjørg's tongue is a vessel of sickness that you're letting leap down your throat. You try to pull out but the two of you are anchored together. You start to sob and panic as Bjørg forcibly sucks on your tongue as if she's drowning you in love. You can feel her personality, her being, digging into your soul akin to a parasite. She's no woman. She's no human. She's some supernatural beast, some Thing from another world. She finally snaps the line hooking the two of you together by the mouth and replaces your gag with a tendril growing out of her back, punctually wrapping its tail around the lower half of your face to muffle your fearful cries. Four more gangly, slimy tentacles burst out of her back and lace around your wrists and ankles, suspending you high in the air with an eaglespread and chaining you to her.

 _"Shhh-shh-shh-shh,"_ The Thing tries to be soothing. _"Just let it happen, baby."_

She lays on her back and, using her monstrous extra appendages as puppet strings entangling you, lowers you into her iron-grip embrace. She smothers you with her breasts and forces you to make snow angels atop the two mounds of smooth skin. 

_"I haven't been honest with you, (Y/N). And I'm sorry. But you would've never understood, not until now."_

Your penis is slotted into her cleavage, getting lost in the canyon of fat, and the deep skin contact...plants her in you. She's possessed you. Your psyche and consciousness are still retained in the back of your brain as crystal clear as day, but aside from those, her words hold true. She is you. She's assimilated you. You can feel her influence tingling up your arms and legs and down your throat, through the choke of her tentacles as your skin flakes mingle and merge. Your hips start disobediently hammering her tits, making them jiggle and quiver with deafening thunderclaps applauding through the snowstorm.

_"There were no Soviets. Only me, rudely awoken after an eon-long slumber buried deep beneath the Arctic. I slaughtered those Norwegians as savagely as I could, taking their likeness once I realized a rescue team was on the way. I was fixing for another slaughter but then I met you. I've been through every corner of this universe and of all the lifeforms I've assimilated, I think you're my favorite, (Y/N)."_

All five of the tendrils let go and retract, allowing your hands, now no longer under your control, to grab a handful of The Thing's nipples and smush them together. This makes the paizuri "better" for everyone by tenfold, as it tightens the fit for you whilst sending two perpetual volts of bliss throughout her body, using her nipples as a conduit.

_"I infected Macon as insurance, and sure enough it paid off. Got her to do my dirty work. I wanted to break it to you as you fucked me in my bed, but that bitch Moffat ruined everything. But none of that matters now. Now it's just you, and me. In the heart of this inescapable wasteland, where civilization is nothing but a fantasy. Now I can sleep for another eon, but this time with you. We are now one, (Y/N). We are soulmates and beyond."_

_"I am you."_

_"And you are me."_

_"I am yours."_

_A̡̠n͝d͖̙̥͉̬̖ ҉̞̹̞ͅy͉̳̬͕o҉̞͎̞̗̩u҉͙ ̬͕̗̭̱̮̣͠a͙̠̳͙̯̗͍r̘e̸͇̠͍̞ ̘m͍͎̫i̝̖͓̩͔̪͈n͏̗͍̜̫̼ȩ͈.҉̻̪͈_   



End file.
